


What He Was Thinking

by Beatrice_Otter



Category: Daddy-Long-Legs - Jean Webster
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Otter/pseuds/Beatrice_Otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jervis Pendleton, in his own thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Was Thinking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lomedet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomedet/gifts).



> Betaed by Sel.

The first time Jervis went to the factory with his father as a boy, the foreman introduced them to a man named Grafton, who bowed and held his cap in his hand when he approached them. This wasn't unusual, of course; lots of people did that when they met Jervis' father. This one, however, was blushing and stumbling over his words as he thanked Jervis' father—several times—for the chance.

Father nodded regally and accepted the thanks as his due, and they moved on. Later, Jervis asked about it on the carriage ride back to their home.

"Hm?" Father said. "Oh, the Grafton boy. His mother was unmarried and died young, leaving him all alone. He had to work as a child and couldn't go to school, and of course no one would hire him for anything more than farm drudgery, knowing where he comes from. But that's a very backwards attitude, of course; _he_ couldn't help what his mother did. And he was such a bright boy, too—he was wasted as a hired hand, positively wasted. He came to my attention by way of … well, it doesn't matter now. So I apprenticed him to one of the mechanics, and he learned his job _very_ quickly. Now I have another good worker who is grateful for the opportunity, and loyal and hard-working to prove he's good enough for it. Grafton has a step up in life. Society has one fewer laborer and one more skilled worker. Everyone benefits—that is by far the best kind of charity.

"Oh," Jervis said. "Are there many men like Grafton?"

Father frowned. "Some," he said. "And some women, too. So much wasted potential because a child's parents die, or they can't take care of them, and then the child is left to fend for itself. Your mother and I are great supporters of orphanages—shiftless, uneducated vagrants are no use to anybody, and a drag on society, and without training and discipline that's what too many orphans become. And once in a while you find a true gem, someone worthy of much greater things, deserving of some assistance upon life's way."

This seemed to Jervis to be all quite self-evident, and proof that his father was the greatest man in the world. But the carriage pulled into the long sweep of the driveway, and the house appeared in the distance, and Jervis' thoughts turned to what sorts of things Cook might be making for dinner, and if Nanny might be persuaded to let him stay up a half-hour late for bed tonight.

He never went to the factory again because soon after he became ill and Mother decreed that the atmosphere was unhealthy for him. He spent that summer in the country with his Nanny, instead. It was a perfect place to be a boy, with lots of places to run and climb and jump, and many interesting things to see. Nanny would take him along with her on her errands, where he sometimes found other boys to play with. And a few times she took him with her to give baskets of food or clothing to the poor, saying it was part of his duty as a Pendleton. It was boring, but they would stop for candy on the way home, so Jervis didn't mind much.

* * *

As a younger son, Jervis wouldn't be inheriting the family fortune. Father gave him one of the smaller factories upon turning twenty-one, but Jervis was not much interested in manufacture and couldn't spend much time there without his mother being sure he was going to become ill again. Still, he found he had a talent and interest in choosing people to run it; and then he heard of another, similar factory that was being sold off at a loss, and bought it almost at a lark, and, in short order, found that he was able to bring in his own people to reorganize it and put it on a profitable footing, and then he had two factories.

His friends took note, and soon Jervis was consulting with them—and often being offered very profitable investments for his time and trouble.

"Why don't you help out your older brother, Jervis?" Morton asked him one day as they were looking over his plans for expanding the dry-goods emporium his father had given him.

"Because he wouldn't listen to _me_ ," Jervis said. "He says I'm just a dilettante, and he's been running things since Father's health started declining, and he knows best of course. We don't get on."

Morton laughed. "And when he's killed off all your father's hard work, will he come to you then?"

Jervis shook his head. "Oh, things won't ever get _that_ bad. His managers are quite good, you know, and the family's holdings are diversified. Nothing's in danger of collapsing, it's just not prospering as well as it could."

"Quite the idiot, your brother," Morton said.

"He is still my brother, you know," Jervis replied mildly. "Say, will we see you at the gala for the Orphans Fund on Saturday?"

"If nothing better comes up," Morton said. "You know, it's so boring and depressing, talking about orphans. Why not give to the opera society, instead?"

"I do!" Jervis laughed. "But much as I love opera, training orphans to be productive members of society is more valuable in the long run, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Morton said.

"And the gala will be entertaining, you know that, you've been before," Jervis said. "Just be glad you don't have to attend board meetings—some of the other trustees are dreadful bores."

"Just like both our fathers, really," Morton said.

"Yes," Jervis said. "If Father's health were in better shape, _he_ could be a trustee still. And he made me promise to take over for him, knowing _dear_ old Johnny wouldn't."

"It's your penance for being the only decent one in the family," Morton said.

"Don't I know it," Jervis said.

* * *

Really, trustee meetings were _such_ an awful bore, Jervis thought, covering up a yawn. The children were so _painfully_ on their guard, the food was mediocre at best, and any fool could tell that the starched-pressed-perfection was little like what the place was like on an actual day to visit. Still, it had to be done. He forced himself to pay attention to the report of the Visiting Committee.

Miss Pritchard tittered nervously. "Oh, you simply _must_ read this, it's too droll," she said, waving around a piece of paper. "Written by one of our own children here, you know her, Jerusha Abbot—the clever one who's been allowed to stay on so that she might go to High School and help Mrs. Lippett with the younger children."

Jervis sighed. The last time he'd gone home, for Mother's birthday, dear old Johnny had insisted on regaling the family with his darling daughter's latest ode. It had been trite and juvenile—expected in a girl's writing, but unfortunate. This would surely be more of the same, as it had been the _last_ time Miss Pritchard had insisted on sharing something.

Miss Pritchard cleared her throat ostentatiously. "A _hem_. Blue Wednesday, by Jerusha Abbot."

Jervis blinked as she read it. It was not trite at all. Nor juvenile. It was _terribly_ funny, worthy of the humor page of a magazine. This Jerusha—egad, what a horrible name—skewered the asylum and the trustees with glee. It was inspired. It was far beyond what the asylum could produce in the normal course of its work, and Jervis should know, having been a trustee for almost five years now. It was beyond what many of his own classmates at Trinity School could have produced.

He'd never thought to give a scholarship to a girl; what, after all, could they do with it? Women married, or became maids. A boy, given a scholarship, could go on to enrich society, but very few women could do anything worthwhile with an education. This girl, however, might be different.

That evening, before he left, he arranged it with Mrs. Lippett. He knew something from dear old Johnny's wife's prattling about what girls needed, and once Jervis decided to do a thing he did it handsomely. (And if a few of the girl's words about the mortification of identical-starched-gingham-dresses had touched a chord, there was no need to mention it.) No need for miserliness; Jervis had more money than he could spend, and more kept coming in. As always, he preferred to remain anonymous; the first orphan he'd sponsored had kept coming to him for a handout long after he should have been self-supporting, just because he could. No, Jervis had learned to nip that sort of thing in the bud, and anonymity was the easiest way to do it. Still, he liked to know how his investments—all of his investments—were doing, so he _did_ insist on letters.

Besides, with _this_ girl, they might actually be amusing.

* * *

The first letter bemused him.

He _certainly_ didn't hate girls; how had the waif gotten _that_ idea? What had Mrs. Lippett said of him? It was only that there was so little point in educating them, and besides, one girl was very like another. An adult woman, now, _those_ could be interesting, once they were past the cooing-over-men stage, but of course one didn't find women in the John Grier Home except the Matron, who had been selected to be competent, not interesting.

The nickname was amusing, though, and although he was no-one's father (nor likely to be so in the next few years), he didn't mind it.

* * *

Jerusha Abbott—soon "Judy," smart girl—was a very interesting person. He'd never dreamed that a girl her age could _be_ interesting, at least not on an intellectual level. He found himself waiting for her letters and hoping she might write more often.

She said things that he would never have thought of. Her perspective on many things was … unique. His interest in the Home was that it train children to be efficient, productive members of society, and it did that quite well. But he had never thought of it from a child's perspective, and wondered if perhaps there might be something to be done. Books? Toys? Those could be given very cheaply.

* * *

Her moods were changeable, but she was usually a sunny sort of person. When she wasn't, he knew there was something wrong. When _he_ was sick at school, his mother had sent him a new bat and a thoughtful card, but Judy had no-one to care. What did one send a girl? Flowers? Girls liked flowers, at least the ones he escorted to the occasional event did. He would send her flowers, and they would cheer her up. He'd much rather have a cheery letter than a gloomy one.

* * *

He hadn't thought of what she might do over the summer; and he didn't blame her for wanting to escape the Asylum. It was quite bleak enough only visiting it once a month. Perhaps something else could be found for her to do. A summer in the country had done him a great deal of good when he had been sick as a child.

Jervis found himself wanting to meet her—and, since he had sent her to the same school as his niece, he had an excuse. No girl the age of Judy Abbott could possibly be as engaging in person as she was in a letter could she? He half expected to be quite bored, and arranged for an excuse to leave, should he need one.

He didn't need it; she was fully ten times as interesting in person as she was by letter, and he almost missed his train. But she simply couldn't go back to the asylum, it would never suit her. A farm was what she needed—it had done him a world of good as a boy, and although he supposed a girl—almost a young lady!—wouldn't care for many of the outdoor he had so enjoyed, it would still be better for her than the Asylum. And if she was to be a writer, a good perspective on various walks of life would be a good thing.

As Jervis sat on the train heading back to the city, he sighed. He was taking Olliver Rutherford's sister to a dance the next evening as a favor, and he was sure it would be an awful bore. He'd never heard her say even one original thing. Judy would be much more interesting, but of course Judy wasn't the kind of girl one could take to such events.

Besides, he couldn't disrupt her studies.

* * *

It was astonishing to read what things the girls at Judy's school thought of, that Judy reported on. He would never have believed it of them—of Judy, yes, Judy had a deep imagination and a voracious curiosity which made even ordinary things interesting—but not of the ordinary sort of girl who went to school with her.

None of it was very practical, though, was it? Octagonal houses and swimming pools full of jelly? All well and good for Judy, who was to be a writer; writers, Jervis supposed, needed that sort of imagination. But what about the others?

And why did he never meet the sort of girl who thought like that? At least it would be something to talk about! Mother kept setting him up with suitable young ladies, one of which had even gone to Judy's college. But none of them were half so interesting.

* * *

Despite Judy's anger—and the missing letter—he couldn't quite bring himself to regret ordering her to Lizzie's farm for the second summer. After all, he couldn't have thought up an excuse to visit the McBrides, whom he didn't know in the slightest. And, angry as Judy was to begin with, by the time he got there she wasn't unhappy any longer, and they had a grand time—he wished he could have found an excuse to stay longer.

* * *

The next two years continued much the same. He occasionally considered revealing himself as "Daddy Long-Legs," but he enjoyed the letters too much to take the chance that they'd stop. She wrote differently to "Jervis" than she did to "Daddy." It was frustrating that she wouldn't take the things he offered her, though he admired her independent spirit. In a man it would have been exemplary. In a girl he wanted to spoil, it was inconvenient. But he had learned that Judy was many things, convenient not being one of them.

By the time Judy was almost through with school, he'd realized a few things. First, that Judy was by far the most interesting girl in the world and no other woman would do; and second, that although dear old Johnny would object (and so, probably, would Mother and Father), Jervis hadn't paid much attention to them in the last decade _anyway_ and wasn't going to start now.

(At this point her nickname for him was … rather awkward, but he couldn't think of any way to ask her to change it without revealing himself, which might change the tenor of the letters. And he didn't want her to feel she had an obligation to him; that sense of debt had been drummed into her head entirely too thoroughly at the Home, as she herself had explained in her letters. He wanted her to choose him because she liked him, not because she felt she had no choice.)

That settled it. He would ask her to marry him, when the time came.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [dreamwidth](http://beatrice-otter.dreamwidth.org/) and [tumblr](http://beatrice-otter.tumblr.com/).


End file.
